


how confused am i (by our happiness)

by plumcat



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, allusions to self doubt, cursing, i wrote this on the notes app of my phone so it's lowercase sry, obnoxious levels of fluff, one (1) mildly suggestive joke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:06:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumcat/pseuds/plumcat
Summary: Logan is a big fan of schedules. Unfortunately for their video production rate (and Virgil's sanity) and fortunately for Roman, he’s an even bigger fan of his boyfriend.





	how confused am i (by our happiness)

there is work to be done. there is always work to be done, at least according to logan’s schedule, which is crisply printed in times new roman 12-point font and hanging smack dab in the middle of the apartment’s refrigerator for all to behold.

well, for all to behold when patton hasn’t covered it with the magnetized picture of the four of them from last christmas, all bundled in sweaters, badly green-screened onto a snowy landscape.

he attempts this almost every evening, and almost every morning, logan removes it and hides it in the cupboard. exclusively for the benefit of the schedule. not because his expression is ridiculous in said photo (“that’s called a smile,” virgil says. “shut up,” logan says, trying to tape the magnet to the bottom inside of a box of oreos).

 

but logan digresses, as he is wont to do in moments of reflection.

the fact of the matter is this. the schedule dictates that they should be 13/17ths of the way through with proofreading the newest script. logan had considered everything. there were periodic five-minute breaks, snacking intervals, and adjustable time windows per page. he had even blocked in time for roman to sulk when his ideas were rejected.

but there is one stubbornly extraneous variable that he had failed to consider. and its name is roman.

roman, his (his!) boyfriend (boyfriend!!). stupid, distracting, obnoxiously charming roman. roman, who, not even half an hour in to the editing, had propped his elbows up on the desk, right on top of the script, and gazed up at logan through his eyelashes, all bright and warm and golden, and murmured, “how about we take a break?”

logan took a small break of his own as he tried to remember how to speak, then said, “there is a break scheduled for fifteen minutes from now.”

from there, proofreading had quickly dissolved into bickering, which dissolved into making out, which dissolved into them lying on the floor in a puddle of sunlight, facing each other, not speaking.

sunshine filters in through the blinds, scattering zig-zags of molten gold across the carpeted floor. roman’s face is striped with it, a band of light brilliantly illuminating his eyes and lower half of his forehead, creased with focus, leaving the rest in relative shadow.

he is tracing nonsense patterns on logan’s face, outstretched finger twisting lazy swirls into existence on the curve of his cheekbone. logan watches him, fondly regarding the concentrated set of his jaw, his tongue poking out from between his lips, the way his face involuntarily twists and pinches as he thinks, minute expressions flickering across it, quick as blinking.

logan reaches forward across roman’s outstretched arm to play with the hair falling into roman’s eyes, faded purple and softer than logan’s own has ever been.

not a minute later, roman abruptly pulls his hand back, whacking logan’s arm to the side in the process. he beams, satisfied, and gives the entirety of logan’s face a pat. “there!”

logan blinks at him. “what, exactly, did you just accomplish?”

”did you get my message?” he asks, in lieu of answering.

“your… what.”

roman pouts. “fine, i’ll do it again.” he resumes his tracing on logan’s forehead, and this time logan pays attention to the motions. a downward line, a pause.

“space,” says roman. then to the left, another, larger, downward line. a circle. a small check-mark shape.

“i, space. l, o, v…” logan tries.

a curve, an inward dash.

“was that an ‘e’?”

“yeah. space—“

“y… o—  _oh.”_

logan feels heat being to creep up his neck. roman looks unreasonably proud of himself.

“oh,” he repeats. his chest feels all funny and warm and so bright it almost hurts, like someone has filled the empty pockets in his heart with sugar syrup.

happiness: noun. sappy: adjective. love: unquantifiable.

how does one say, you make me feel like mint breath strips taste, like fizzy drinks and technicolor sunsets and lazy, tangled limbs? how does one say, you make me act like a fool and want things i’ve never wanted? how does one say, i love—

“i… i too… i have… uh. strong feelings of affection for you, roman.”

roman gasps, pressing a hand to his chest, jaw falling open in exaggerated delight. “logan!” he whispers, in a highly-affected tone reminiscent of a 12-year-old girl at a sleepover, “do you have a crush on me?”

the warmth in logan’s chest immediately evaporates.

logan sighs as aggressively as he can. “roman, we’ve been dating for three months.”

roman pays him no heed, instead choosing to lean in close and wiggle his eyebrows suggestively at logan, making ridiculous “ooh”-ing noises in the process.

“i think you have a crush on me!” he sing-songs, poking logan’s shoulder with each syllable.

logan shoves roman away with a huff. “you’re the one who just said—!”

roman swings himself up into kneeling, sitting back on his heels and fixing the still-prone logan with a shit-eating grin. “i didn’t say it.”

logan rolls his eyes, propping himself up on one elbow. “you’re damn lucky you’re pretty, asshole.”

roman beams, and logan can’t fight the swell of fondness that rises within him once again. roman glows, not with the blinding brightness of his camera smile, but something much warmer and slightly crooked, something that sings.

“you’re not too bad looking yourself,” roman says, and leans down to kiss him.

his lips don’t make contact. when he opens his eyes a moment later, deeply puzzled, logan has used his free hand to grab his chin, holding roman in place, their faces mere inches from one another.

“not bad looking?!” logan says indignantly.

there’s a silence. one corner of roman’s mouth twitches upward.

”i’m just trying to be honest,” he says, as straight-faced as he can manage. “you’ve always liked unembellished judgements.”

“what could POSSIBLY—“

“for one thing,” roman muses, unable to stifle his smirk, “your hair is a disaster.”

“you’re the one who pulled it!”

“you’re the one who LIKED IT!”

logan splutters incoherently. roman, the absolute jerk, is laughing his ass off.

logan sighs and flops backward onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling as if it holds an answer to his many grievances with the universe. “i call you pretty and this is the thanks i get?”

“aw, i’m sorry logan,” roman says once he’s recovered, rolling over toward logan and resting his head on his stomach. “it must be difficult to be the less-pretty one.” he smirks. “not that i’d know.”

“i’m leaving you,” says logan listlessly.

he feels more than sees roman move his head off him. there are some shifting noises and then he’s lying with his head resting on logan’s outstretched arm.

there’s a slow silence. roman’s breath is on his neck and their legs are half-curled together and there is so much to be done. logan thinks, idly, of the waning afternoon, of time (precious time) slipping through his fingertips like sand. the sun has moved so the script on the desk, originally sliced with light, is now languishing in darkness.

“but i really do think you’re attractive, you know that, right?” comes roman’s voice. logan furrows his brow at the ceiling.

“… pardon?”

“i mean, remember the first time we met at remy’s party and i was drunk off my ass and couldn’t stop staring and you got mad cause you thought it was creepy and virgil was laughing so hard he tripped and spilled vodka all over my—“

“roman!” logan rolls over to face him. “it’s alright, i am… aware.” (mostly. well, partly. okay, so he only remembers about half that night. the point still stands.) “you good, fahm?”

roman works at the inside of his cheek.

“i know it’s stupid,” he says after a moment. logan fights the urge to remind him about the benefits of positive self-referential language. “i just suddenly wanted to make sure you didn’t— doubt. that i care, i mean. because sometimes i…”

(… oh.)

“roman,” logan says, reaching with the arm that roman isn’t lying on to cup his boyfriend’s face. “of course i know you— of course i know. from what i understand, it’s always been the nature of our relationship. we bicker with a frequency that sometimes alarms virgil.”

roman cracks a smile, shifting almost undetectably closer to logan. “everything alarms virgil. wasn’t there that one time he went downstairs at night to get water and you had fallen asleep at the dining table and he thought you were an intruder and—“

“—YES, WE ALL KNOW,” logan says over roman’s muffled giggles. “stop laughing, i don’t know what is amusing about that, my head hurt for a week—“

roman hides his smile in logan’s palm. logan glares at him for a moment before remembering his original train of thought.

“that being said,” logan continues, forcing his voice and gaze to soften, “it pains me greatly to think that you have ever been laboring under the illusion that my affections for you are anything but monumental.”

roman makes a small, startled, sound.

“you are everything i’ve ever wanted,” logan says softly, tracing his thumb over the curve of roman’s cheekbone, relishing his sharp intake of breath, eyes fluttering wider. “and everything i could ever dream of needing. if the way our relationship has been operating detracts from your ability to see that, i think we need to discuss—“

“no,” roman interrupts, “no, it’s okay. it’s more about me than the relationship or whatever. i like being… us. i like arguing with you. i like— being with you.”

“oh good,” logan says, relieved. “ah. i mean. that is quite satisfactory.”

“nerd,” roman sighs, and kisses his nose. “of course,” he adds a moment later, almost as an afterthought, “i can’t ever  _really _doubt you love me.” he attempts a wink. (it looks more like a facial spasm, but is still cute.) “i mean, how could you not?”__

that’s okay, logan thinks, you don’t have to believe that yet. i will just keep reminding you. i’m proud anyway.

“ah, there he is,” he says instead, and kisses him.

the afternoon wears on, sticky and slow-moving, stumbling steadily forward in time with the splatters of sun sliding across the floor.

the script lies discarded on the table, but there are more important things. there is work to be done, but roman is real and warm and soft and his fingers are twisting in logan’s hair and when they separate for air, roman’s eyes, meet his and roman smiles, all breathless and precious and full of life, and god, logan is so fucking gone.

i love you i love you i love you, logan’s brain is yelling, as he kisses roman, again and again and again. even if he’s still working on saying it, he thinks roman knows.

(in the kitchen, the schedule, still hanging on the fridge, flutters in a draft of wind from the open window.

at the counter, a couple feet away, patton fights with a package of oreos. it really isn’t cooperating today, probably the universe’s personal admonishment towards patton for having consumed half the package in a day. hey, he ain’t a quitter.

aha, there it goes— wait. patton frowns in confusion as the plastic tray gets caught on something on its way out of the package.

after some fumbling, he manages to yank out the obstacle— his favorite magnet, of the famILY grinning in their christmas sweaters, masterfully photoshopped by none other than himself onto a pretty snowy landscape. even logan is halfway smiling, arm slung around roman’s shoulder. it’s adorable.

of course, patton thinks, delighted, he’d almost forgotten about their little game. instinctively, he moves to hang it up on top of the schedule.

he stands back to admire his handiwork, fitting a cookie into his mouth and giving himself a mental pat (hah!) on the back.

“pat?” comes virgil’s voice from the study. “where’d you go? i have something to show you.”

“coming!” he calls, tossing the oreos back into the cupboard and casting one final, fond glance at the refrigerator.

it’s a good reminder, he thinks, smoothening the fraying edge of the photo. family over work. logan will learn it someday.)

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got around to posting this here! the world needs more soft Logince and I, for one, am happy to provide. The eldritch being that resides inside my bones lives off of kudos + comments pls feed it <3


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